Potential
by Kyra4
Summary: "Will…will you be on Dragon tomorrow?" he asks. Finally something shows on her face – a tinge of incredulity. "You cannot really expect me to share that sort of information with the enemy?" Years after their relationship came to an abrupt end, Jane & Gunther find themselves thrown together on the eve of battle - on opposing sides. Written for Janther Week, Day 6: Prompt, Potential.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is a Janther Week fic, written in response to the prompt for Day 6, Potential. Shout-out to lareepqg for helping significantly with the action/battle sequences._

 _This is chapter one of two. I will post the second and final chapter sometime next week, so as to extend that Janther Week mojo just a little further!_

 _'Cause, really, EVERY week should be Janther week! ;)_

 _Okay, Hiccups was a nice little interlude, but... back to the angst._

* * *

Gunther's breath leaves his lungs in an awful little _whoosh_ when he sees her.

It's not entirely a surprise. He'd wondered – caught halfway between longing and dread – whether she'd be with the party that came to discuss terms. He'd known it was a possibility.

And he'd _thought_ he'd known what it would do to him.

He'd been wrong.

He had anticipated some manner of… residual ache. After all, they'd been close once.

Very close.

He'd _loved_ her, once.

But he hadn't expected the very air to be stolen from his body at the sight of her, hadn't expected to feel as though the ground were being savagely yanked out from under his feet.

He grits his teeth and clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white. It's not fair, damnit.

It's not _fair_.

Because _she_ seems completely unaffected, looking through him as though he isn't even there.

There'd been a time when _he_ had been the one with the perfectly smooth mask, the flawless, unassailable facade. Not Jane.

 _Never_ Jane. Jane wears her heart on her sleeve, always _has_.

Except… apparently… not anymore.

He supposes, distantly, that he hardly has a right to be surprised by that. He hasn't seen her in over three years… closer to three and a half.

Not that anyone is counting.

He doesn't _know_ her any longer; she's a stranger to him now. And of course it's to be expected that she would change with the passage of time.

Change, yes.

But he _hadn't_ expected her to appear so… _hardened_.

Had _he_ caused this, had he done this to her with the way things had ended, the manner in which he'd left?

Something inside of him twists at the thought.

He realizes he's staring and forces his gaze away. Anywhere else, it doesn't matter. The rough canvas wall of the large tent in which the two parties have met, the dully gleaming pile of weaponry by the entrance – they'd all divested themselves of their various blades when they'd arrived, as a show of good faith – hell, even the ground beneath his scuffed boots.

Anywhere but at her features, once so familiar, so open and caring; now, for all appearances, chiseled in stone.

Thank God he's not expected to take an active part in these talks. He'd be useless. _Useless_.

Not that the negotiations are fruitful in any case. He hadn't really expected that they would be. The objectives of the two kingdoms are too different, thoroughly incompatible. There's no bridging that distance through diplomacy. Terms cannot be made.

There will be battle on the morrow, a battle in which both he and Jane will take part –

On opposing sides.

* * *

"Jane!"

He hadn't even realized that he'd intended to chase her down after the meeting had dispersed; it's a _terrible_ idea, reckless and ill-thought-out; there's nothing to be gained by it. It cannot possibly result in any fruitful outcome, given the way the negotiations had ended.

And yet his feet, with a will of their own, carry him after her all the same.

She'd been walking briskly away into the deepening dusk, but turns at the sound of her name. She stands there passive, saying nothing as he approaches.

"Jane," he says, stopping a few feet away from her, and then nothing more. He can think of nothing more _to_ say.

"Gunther," she responds in kind, and she sounds entirely detached from the situation, from him.

Which, he supposes, is appropriate. He'd certainly detached himself completely from _her_ three and a half years ago.

So why, why does it _hurt_ like this to hear her so?

"You... look well," she adds a moment later as he stands there, tongue-tied. _Still_ he says nothing. Words have entirely deserted him. Eventually she starts to turn away.

" _Jane._ " Gunther can hear a slight edge of desperation in his own voice. Does that mean she can hear it too? Crazily, he finds that he doesn't even care. He's just _frantic_ , suddenly, to keep her here, near him, within eyeshot, _safe_. Because tomorrow –

Sweet bleeding Christ, _tomorrow_ –

"Gunther," she says again, and he can hear just the faintest hint of impatience creeping into her voice, "was there something you wanted? I have preparations to make. I am sure you do, as well."

He swallows hard. He wants to ask her where she'll be tomorrow, what part she will take in the fighting. He wants to ask her if she'll be _safe_.

"Will… will you be on Dragon tomorrow?" he manages at last. That's probably the safest place for her. Not safe _enough_ , God no, but safer than being on the ground. Safer than being in the thick of it.

Finally something shows on her face – a tinge of incredulity. She folds her arms over her chest. "You cannot really expect me to share that sort of information with the enemy?" she asks.

 _The enemy_.

The words slam Gunther, nearly knock him flat.

This truly was the worst idea of his _life_ , and his life has been a veritable study in poor decisions; look where it's landed him, after all.

He opens his mouth to retort; closes it with a snap, turns on his heel and leaves without another word. He's taken maybe half a dozen long strides when –

"Gunther!"

He stops, fists clenching all over again, but doesn't turn back. He can't. He can't look at her right now. It'll undo him.

Jane, however, still apparently being, essentially, _Jane_ , doesn't give him a choice in the matter. She walks around in front him him and stands directly in his path. Reluctantly, he raises his eyes to meet hers once more.

"Be careful out there tomorrow," she says. "Gunther… be safe."

And he's sent reeling all over again.

She's gone into the gathering gloom before he can compose himself enough to reply.

Before he can unfreeze his stupid tongue and manage to say, _you too_.

* * *

Gunther wrenches his sword free of the man – no, the body – that is slumping to ground before him, then whirls and raises it just in time to deflect a blow from the side.

He dispatches this new opponent too, although not before sustaining a shallow – but stinging – gash to his hip. He pauses, breathing heavily, to shake his hair out of his eyes, mop sweat from his brow. The battle's been raging for the better part of the morning, and he'd lost his horse early on. He's been on foot since, and he's aching with exhaustion.

And fear. That too.

Not for himself. But Jane is here somewhere and that fact is killing him, it's _killing_ him.

He hadn't slept at all last night, just lain there wide-eyed in the darkness, staring upward toward the canvas ceiling of his tent, his mind obsessively running over the hundred – thousand – hell, the _infinite_ ways in which she could die today, and…

He never sleeps _soundly_ on the eve of battle, he doesn't know anyone who _does_ … well, except for those who choose to imbibe, but… face a battle _hungover?_

No thank you.

He may not have the _best_ decision-making track record, but he can do better than _that._ He would need to hate himself quite a bit more then he currently does, to subject himself to _that_ magnitude of hell.

So no, he hadn't expected a deep, restful, uninterrupted slumber. But he usually manages to sleep a _little_. Even an hour would have been appreciated, Christ, even _half_ an hour.

But no. What he'd gotten instead had been an endless, unrelenting horror show - eyes open, eyes shut, it made no difference – Jane and Dragon falling from the sky. Jane run through, Jane shot full of arrows, Jane gutted by a lance, trampled by a horse, Jane's head yanked back by a fistful of that incredible molten hair and her throat slit, or her head lopped clean _off_. Jane taking a minor wound – no more than a scratch, really – and then taking a fever. Dying in agony days later.

Jane surrounded, overpowered by her enemies - _his comrades_ \- dragged down to the ground and –

Torture. It was torture. And he'd been utterly helpless to make it stop.

There's a slight lull in the fighting in his immediate vicinity, and he takes advantage of it to look around, scanning the battlefield as best he can from his admittedly limited vantage point, scanning the sky overhead. He's been looking for her more or less ceaselessly since the battle had been joined.

He has yet to catch a glimpse though.

God's _wounds_ , how difficult can she be to spot!? She has hair like a _signal fire!_ There is no one, _no one_ else like her on earth, she is unique, she is exceptional, and –

And he is still head over heels in love with her.

 _Sarding HELL_.

 _SARDING_ HELL.

This was why he'd cut and run in the _first_ place. It had terrified him when he'd realized he was falling – truly, madly, deeply _falling_ – for his childhood nemesis, training partner, and comrade-in-arms, Jane Turnkey.

This is not – _is not_ – the sort of life that is conducive to intimate relationships. There's just such uncertainty. Every day, every night, every minute. His life could be cut short at _any given second_ , brutally and unapologetically, and so – as he is currently, _excruciatingly_ aware – could _hers_.

He hadn't been able to handle it. It had been too much, _entirely_ too much, for the broken boy who had grown up without the slightest inkling of what love actually was.

And what love actually _was_ , he had discovered through Jane, was _amazing_. So amazing it had scared him to death.

It had been good at first. Beyond good. It had been euphoric. The world had flooded with color and sensation in a way that Gunther had never known before. It had even been worth the other knights in their company rolling their eyes and making kissy faces at him around the fire at night.

It had all been in good humor, the ribbing. Most of his compatriots had been in love before. They knew, apparently, what it was like, or at least they _said_ they did. Although Gunther hadn't been at all convinced that anyone, anywhere, _ever_ , could have felt as strongly as he did for Jane.

It had burned in him like dragonfire.

 _Still does,_ his mind whispers as he stands, panting, in the midst of the killing field. _Still does._

But the euphoria had not lasted long – only a matter of weeks – and when things had taken a turn for the worse, it had happened quickly and completely; two incidents spaced only a few hours apart that had killed the whole thing, blighted his entire life from that day to this.

* * *

He'd been holding Jane, the two of them lying entwined in her tent, sated and drowsy and falling away toward sleep when he'd gathered her more fully against himself, buried his face in her hair and mumbled impulsively, "I love you."

It was the first time he'd said it aloud – and also the last and only time, as it happened.

 _Because she hadn't said it back_.

She hadn't said it back, in fact she had _stiffened_ in his arms, said " _Gunther_ " in a stricken little voice as if he'd just _wounded_ her somehow instead of declaring his love.

Abruptly he'd been wide awake, more awake than he'd ever been in his _life_ – and cold.

Cold right down to his bones.

Extricating himself from their decadent tangle of limbs, he'd sat up, every part of his body suddenly tense almost to the breaking point. He'd raked a hand through his hair, struggling to breathe.

 _What have I done, what have I done, wh_ –

"Gunther – it – you –"

She'd put a hand on his back, tried to draw him back down to her.

But he'd understood. He'd understood she didn't feel the same way and _oh sard_ it had hurt. Sure she cared – Jane had enough heart for the whole kingdom – but there was a difference between loving someone and being _in love_ and he had just _ruined everything_ by foisting his feelings on her, unasked for, unwanted, _unreturned_.

In a panic, he'd thrown on his clothes, grabbed up his boots, and positively _fled_ her tent, barely even feeling the bitter midnight chill. Jane had tried to stop him, calling after his retreating form in frantic, hushed tones so as not to wake their comrades, but she'd tangled in the blankets and fallen heavily to the ground – and Gunther had been _long_ gone by the time she'd recovered and put on enough clothing to pass for the barest minimum of decency.

She'd looked for him, probably to console him or soothe his ego with some paltry words of pitying comfort – Jane was nothing if not kind, and _hells_ he loved her for it – but he'd made sure he was unavailable.

Which is to say, he'd hidden.

He isn't proud of it, but he'd hidden.

He'd watched from the shadows as she'd searched for him; he'd been able to see the troubled crease between her brows in the dim light. She'd almost found him once, been _right there,_ so close he could have reached out and _touched_ her – and _God_ had he wanted to – to hold her and let her whisper platitudes and believe it was enough, _enough_...

But it wasn't. Not really. So he hadn't reached out to catch her hand or run his fingers through her still-mussed hair – and as soon as she turned away, he'd run off into the forest to lick his wounds in private.

That had been the first incident. The second, coming right on its heels, coming with the break of dawn, had been ambush.

Gunther had waited a long time, until he'd been reasonably sure that Jane would have either worn herself out searching, or been driven back to her tent by the cold.

The sky was already just barely starting to lighten toward dawn, though still smattered with stars that glittered like ice chips in the chill air, when he'd crept back to his own tent, shaking from the cold, moving like a fugitive, thoroughly miserable.

There'd been a part of him that had been hoping against hope, against reason or his own better judgment, to find Jane there, wrapped in _his_ blankets, sleep-warm and drowsy, soft and pliant as he curled himself around her, nestled into her heat and pretended that none of this had ever happened.

But his tent had been empty, blankets cold.

Suddenly, despite being half-frozen and fully exhausted, it had been the last place in the world he'd wanted to be.

Turning his back on it, he'd wandered over to where a handful of men just off night watch sat grouped around a small fire. He'd folded himself onto the ground just outside the circle of light, and dropped his head into his hands.

"Gunther," one of them had said cautiously, "Jane was look–"

"I know," he'd rasped out without raising his head.

"She was almost blue with cold and worried sick," another added. "I do not know what has happened, but you should r–"

And that was when the alarm had sounded.

There'd been a frantic shout from one of the sentries – "to arms, to arms!" followed immediately by cries and the clash of swords. Gunther and the others had been on their feet instantaneously; they'd exchanged a lightning-quick glance of horror and then they'd been running – the others, who'd been on watch and so were _already_ armed, toward the sound of the disturbance. Gunther, who was not, had raced back to his tent _again_ for his sword and bow.

Ducking out through his tent flap, he'd immediately been met with an adversary. Holy hell, they were already _in_ the camp, how had they infiltrated so quickly!? Gunther had realized in that moment that their attackers had probably been watching them all night. With a rush of horrified clarity, he'd understood that he'd been very, _very_ lucky not to have stumbled upon one – or _more_ – of them when he'd run into the trees to escape from Jane.

As it was, he might not have seen them but they had likely seen _him_. He was probably only alive right now because they hadn't wanted to jeopardize their element of surprise.

All of this had gone flashing across his consciousness in a heartbeat's worth of time and then the other man had been on him, snarling.

Gunther had dispatched him, but not without some significant difficulty. His enemy had been larger and more experienced than Gunther, his combat style tending more toward street fighting or thuggery than gallant warfare. Without his weapons, Gunther surely would have lost.

Once the man was down, and once Gunther had regained his breath, he'd made his way through the camp – assisting comrades when they were pinned down, engaging such enemies as he'd encountered, and dispatching those that were down but could still present a danger – working his way, desperation increasing by the second, toward the vicinity of _Jane's_ tent. He'd been distracted by his mounting panic as the minutes had passed and he'd seen no sign of her – distracted to the point where he'd gotten careless and sustained a minor, but bloody slash wound from a man he'd thought, mistakenly, had already been dead.

He'd been nearly beside himself by the time he'd finally caught sight of her. And he'd been _fully_ beside himself when he _had_.

She'd been heavily engaged already, locked in combat with a hulking brute who'd looked twice her size at _least_ – maybe closer to _thrice_ , come to that. But that hadn't even been the truly horrifying part.

The truly horrifying part had been that not one but _two_ more men had been converging on her position while she was occupied with the behemoth's frontal attack.

And there'd been nothing he could do about it.

The distance between them had still been too great, and Gunther had still been occupied with foes of his own. His breath had caught, the world tilting slightly with the force of his terror for her.

 _Jane, oh bleeding hell, JANE_ –

He'd swallowed past the sudden obstruction in his throat and had started to shout out a warning to her – but he needn't have bothered.

She'd been aware of the other men all the while, as had been evidenced when she'd managed to fell her initial attacker and had spun immediately, with uncanny – almost frightening – precision and grace, to face the other two. Jane had been poetry in motion, her movements fluid – _beautiful_ – deadly.

Gunther had watched between his own parries and strikes… he'd have been positively _transfixed_ , if he'd had that luxury. How had he never fully realized how skilled she _was_ , how entirely, _gorgeously_ lethal? He supposed he had usually been too busy fighting alongside her to ever just simply… well… _watch._

She'd killed them, one after the other, with efficient, nearly effortless ease - then, without missing a beat, had been on to help another of their fellow knights who'd been laid low with a gash to his leg.

She hadn't even seen Gunther.

And that had been when he'd really, fully understood. Jane hadn't needed his assistance.

Jane hadn't needed _him_.

She'd _never_ needed him. She never _would_.

But he needed her, and he'd realized, in that moment, how horrendously vulnerable that _made_ him. How much of a _liability_ it made _her_. As if he'd decided to cut his heart right out of his chest and wear it on a thong around his neck, fully exposed _outside_ his mail. And it might – _might_ – have been worth it if there'd been any sort of reciprocity there, but to _cripple_ himself like that for someone who didn't return his feelings? He couldn't.

He _couldn't_.

His decision had been made in an instant.

He had to get away.

* * *

The clash had taken longer than he would have expected, given the relatively small size of the attacking force. Their ambushers had been well-organized, had known the lay of the land, and had planned for contingencies… but ultimately had been unable to overcome the superior numbers, weaponry and training of the king's men.

In the end, Gunther's company had only lost two people – an older knight who'd been trampled by a frightened horse, and a new squire who'd bled out after catching an arrow in the throat. Most of the opposing force, by contrast, had ended up dead – but they'd managed to capture half a dozen of the enemy for questioning. As prisoners of the crown, they'd be taken back to the castle, interrogated, and likely executed.

It had been determined that a couple of men should be sent ahead with news of the ambush and the fact that prisoners were in transit, and Gunther had been quick to volunteer. He'd been desperate, almost _crazed_ with the need to put some distance between himself and Jane. He hadn't even spoken to her before departing – had reached the castle, delivered his news, resigned his commission, and left. He hadn't even said goodbye to his father; had just penned him a vague note and sailed on the next ship out of the harbor.

It had gutted him to leave like that, without saying goodbye, but it had been necessary; basic self-preservation – or at least, he had thought so at the time.

It had eaten away at him, though. A little more with each day, with each mile.

He'd thought he'd grown used to the pain, _numb_ to it – that his heart had scabbed over, maybe even healed, but _now_ , having finally seen her again…

God's blood.

It's clear that nothing, _nothing_ has changed.

His heart is still beating outside of his body. It always _has_ been, from that day to this.

Running from that fact, trying to ignore it, refusing to face it, acknowledge it, has not made it any less true. The passage of _time_ has not made it any less true.

He will love Jane Turnkey until he draws his last breath, and he's half _mad_ with fear for her now.

If only he could just lay eyes on her, know that she's all right. Where is she?

Hell's BELLS –

 _Where IS she!?_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Happy day after Janther Week! I'm going to do what I can to keep the goodness going, starting by wrapping up this fic today. Plus I have many more chapters of Shattered queued up, plus a 2-chapter Saudade fic that I'm sitting on for the time being, and Laree will be posting 5(?) additional chapters of our co-authored Sellsword fic, on a weekly basis I think, so actually the Janther Week mojo will continue for quite a while_ :-D

 _A super stoked thank-you goes out to Laree for her awesome fanart of this chapter! You can see it on the Janther Week blog if you haven't already - also, it's my cover art for this story but I recommend going to the blog to view it larger, as many of the details are lost in the little cover art thumbnail. When will they make it so you can click on a story's cover art and enlarge it to more than the size of a freaking postage stamp? In any case_ – _Enjoy the conclusion, and drop me a review! Pretty please?_

* * *

It's not until the battle is in full swing – has been raging for hours – that he makes the connection.

The two forces are clashing in an open field. There is no fort to besiege, no castle to lay waste – and he had thought it passing strange that heavy war machines had been lugged all this way into the middle of nowhere. It had been done by the footmen of a kingdom that is allied to his own, and although he'd shaken his head in puzzlement, he hadn't followed up with any inquiries; he'd had too much to do, too many preparations to make on behalf of himself and his _own_ men, the garrison that answers to him.

But yes – odd. Disquieting, even. They'd brought ballistas, catapults. Rather useless equipment, really, without something concrete at which to _aim_. He'd thought it an almost ludicrous waste of manpower, dragging them out here.

But then, they _do_ have a target in mind.

Of course they do.

How, _how_ could he not have realized?!

* * *

He's managed to acquire a new mount and is riding by, on the way to give his report, when the men begin loading them. The ballistas are being fitted with _wicked_ -looking, barbed projectiles – but before he has time to really ponder the purpose of _those_ , he sees what they're loading into the catapults.

And he goes simultaneously hot and cold all over, and he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't _breathe_.

They are not being laden with stones or flaming pitch, but with great spiderwebs of chains, weighted down on each end with spiked maces.

Woven metal nets, created for the sole purpose of bringing down a dragon.

 _And its rider_.

Dragon's scales are virtually impenetrable – everyone knows that – although the presence of those barbed projectiles suggests that someone in authority has decided it's worth a shot anyway. But his _wings_ – his wings can be torn, his wings can be _shredded_ , and if that were to happen, if he were to plummet from the sky, he'd be as susceptible to death – to having his neck snapped, his organs liquified on impact – as any other creature that is robbed of flight mid-air.

And then there's Jane.

By everything that's holy, there's _JANE_.

Jane will _never_ survive a hit from the ballista, or the rending, shredding, ripping of those metal nets, or any fall from more than a few feet in the air.

Had he really thought he'd been afraid for her _before?_

He's plunged into an awful, icy, inarticulate terror.

 _Jane… God… no…_ no _. Shite, NO_.

He's paralyzed. And then a shout goes up; a cry that starts behind the lines and roars itself forward like a wave from man to man until it reaches him where he is still sitting frozen on his steed, staring stupidly at the machinery.

They are all yelling, pointing, hands held up to shield their eyes from the sun. Gunther follows their line of sight to –

 _Dragon_. Dragon has taken, at long last, to the air, and Jane – _of course_ – is with him. Even from this distance, Gunther can see the cold glitter of her mail, the sheen of Dragon's underbelly, the snapping red banner of her hair trailing behind her.

Then Dragon folds his wings and – Gunther's heart catches in his throat – rolls in the air like a barrel, dropping toward the ground like a stone. At what seems like the last possible moment, he snaps his wings out, righting himself, and makes a pass over the field of fighting men, so low that Gunther can see the sun glinting off Dragon's _talons_.

It's a breathtaking, spectacular, _frightening_ display of aerial prowess. Proof that Dragon is a fiercely lethal force to be reckoned with.

The men fall silent as he passes overhead, watching with terrified awe as this magnificent creature and his glorious rider skim the tops of the few trees with almost casual grace. They've made it halfway around the battlefield when Dragon opens his mouth and roars. It's a sound unlike _any_ Gunther has ever heard from him in all the years of their association.

Animalistic, wild – it's a gutteral, _primal_ sound, holding no trace of Dragon's actual voice. It reverberates across the field; Gunther can feel it vibrating the armor on his chest, and a handful of men even drop to their knees, covering their ears in an attempt to block out the sound.

Then dragon finishes his circuit and begins climbing up, up into the empty blue bowl of the sky.

That first pass was just a warning, Gunther understands, just a… _prelude_. He can see Jane's forces pulling back; the next pass will be on the remaining combatants.

His own front lines.

He's not the only one who's realized it, either. There's a sudden frenzy of activity as the men around him snap into action. They're rushing to load, to crank down the tension, rotate the dias, angle the weights. Anything and everything to ensure that they're fully prepared and ready to take down a dragon, and… and _murder_ Jane.

 _No. No no no no_ NO.

No, he can't let that happen. He can't, he _won't_.

He's in motion before his mind has even finished processing his categorical denial.

The first catapult is easy enough. He's already almost on top of it, and the men loading it are certainly not expecting an attack from within their own camp, never _mind_ by one of their own commanders.

Gunther is mounted and all he has to do is lean forward and down, swipe at the rope restraining the bucket. No one reacts quickly enough to stop him.

The payload goes flying up… up… into nothing. Dragon isn't anywhere near their firing range – he's barely begun his spiraling ascent – and so the mess of chains land uselessly behind Jane's line.

The second machine is just as simple. It's not fully prepped and his blow causes the weights to rip free and pull the base from its moorings. The entire contraption swings wildly, upending at its base, flipping almost completely over.

It explodes in a roar of splinters and shards, some the size of gunther's legs. The flying debris cuts down three of the footmen attending it, and the firing arm lands heavily on another, crushing him to death.

Gunther might have felt bad _–_ these men are hardly more than _boys_ , really _–_ but there isn't time for that. He's already moving on to the first ballista.

Unfortunately, however, the noise of the catapults' demise has drawn attention. By the time he reaches his next objective, the men are aware of his approach _–_ though they don't yet understand that he is the _source_ of the commotion, and so like those before them at the catapults, they don't expect him to attack.

The ballistas prove more difficult to sabotage. The army hadn't bothered with the smaller, crossbow-like pedestals that can be operated by a single man. _No_ , these are huge, three-man machines; heavy, sturdy, powerful, meant for… for hopefully impaling a dragon.

The tension ropes are too thick to cut with a single swing of the sword, but he manages to get two good whacks in before the men are able to overcome their stupefaction and spring to the machine's defense.

After that, everything becomes a bit of a blur.

One of the ballista-men comes at him with a short sword, slashing wildly. Gunther, with the advantage of height in his mounted position, plants his foot in the man's chest, knocking him backward before he can strike; but as he falls, he gouges a long slice down the flank of Gunther's steed. The horse kicks out in pain, unintentionally braining another attacker _–_

But that's where Gunther's luck deserts him.

A third soldier has managed to get behind him, round the other side of the horse, and grabs hold of Gunther's leg, trying to yank him out of the saddle. The horse, however, still prancing and rearing in pain – and now thrown off-balance as _well_ –comes down hard on them _both_.

The weight of the beast pins the other man flat, but the impact knocks the breath savagely from Gunther's lungs and traps his leg so that the both of them _–_ he and his assailant _–_ are locked in a desperate struggle _–_ fighting the bulk of the thrashing animal while also trying to avoid each other's blows.

An endless few seconds later, the horse rolls off them _–_ Gunther, with a wince and a hiss, feels something give in his knee. He retains the presence of mind, however, to yank his dagger quickly free and dispatch his enemy.

The enemy who is garbed in the same colors as he.

Then he is up, trying not to think about that, limping badly but still determined, renewing his assault on the ballista. It occurs to him distantly that these are almost certainly the last few minutes of his life.

And he finds that he is perfectly at peace with that. There is nothing about his life that he is particularly attached to. He will part with it willingly enough _–_ as long as he can manage to save Jane.

He severs one of the tension ropes, but it's not enough, the machine could still do some damage, so he kicks at the stays, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, until he feels them give. The ballista can still be repaired, but to do so will take time, and lumber they did not bring with them to the battlefield.

For the present, at least, it is thoroughly out of commision.

Grunting, staggering slightly, Gunther catches the reins of his horse; swings back into the saddle, although with some difficulty now; and continues with his desperate mission of sabotage.

By the time he reaches the final two machines _–_ both catapults loaded with those _appalling_ nets that are intended to rip, shred, bring down and _destroy_ the only thing that's ever truly given his life meaning _–_ a cry has gone up. They know what he is doing now, even if they don't understand _why_ ; they're expecting his attack and have braced against it.

They're ready for him.

He loses his horse again almost immediately. He does, at least, manage to get clear of the animal this time, although impacting the ground sends a jolt through his hurt leg that makes his vision dim for a heartbeat or two, and wrenches an unwilling cry from his lips.

Then he's laying about with his sword, because men are coming at him from all sides now; he's fighting purely to defend himself and no, damnit, _no_ , if he can't reach those last machines then this has all been for _nothing_ _–_ he has to, he HAS TO put them out of commission somehow, but he's outnumbered and he's on foot, trying to fight off six or eight at once, and more are coming on the run, and _–_

 _It's over_.

He manages to take one adversary down, but two more step in to fill the gap.

 _He's failed her_.

He's being driven back, step by step, _away_ from the catapults. No, no _NO_ _–_

 _Jane_.

The force of his own despair almost sends him to his knees. To be this close and then thwarted _–_ with something _so much more precious_ than his miserable, pointless life at stake _–_

The point of a sword drives into his shoulder and _Christ_ that hurts _–_ simultaneously someone behind him uses the flat of their blade to sweep his legs out from under him. He goes down hard on his back, head slamming into the ground, wind knocked out of him _again_ , and a booted foot comes down on his sword hand, then twists _–_ _grinding_ _–_ forcing him to let go.

 _I am so sorry, Jane_.

Things are sliding out of focus. Someone kicks him hard in the side, eliciting a sick little grunt. More blows are landing on his flanks, his ribs. Someone kicks him in the _head_ and stars explode across his vision. He tries to curl away from the pain, and as he does so he sees another man, snarling with fury _–_ and why not? It's justified; he'd be furious too, in their position _–_ raising an enormous broadsword to deliver the killing blow. Jesus, he is about to be cut in _half_ _–_

 _So sorry. I love y–_

And then Dragon roars again.

 _Directly_ above him.

The men in the vicinity had become so focused on Gunther and his wildly unexpected attack that they'd entirely _forgotten_ about Dragon _–_ so, for that matter, had Gunther himself, at least in terms of keeping tabs on exactly where Jane and Dragon _were_.

And where Jane and Dragon are… is here.

They are _right_ over him. Dragon's enormous form swallows the whole sky, and then the ground shakes as he thuds down. Gunther can feel the heat radiating from his body, shimmering off his scales. Dragon even _smells_ like fire _–_ like fury, and destruction… and protection… and _home_.

As Gunther watches, dazedly, several of the men simply _disappear_. Gunther's not sure if they've decided to retreat or if Dragon has knocked them away; and the man with the broadsword makes a small, almost _mewling_ sound of distress before the top half of him _–_ sword and _all_ _–_ just _vanishes_ into Dragon's gaping maw.

Then the rest of him is gone too and Gunther can see bits of the cloud-dotted sky as Dragon whips his head back and forth, before tossing what's left of Gunther's would-be executioner to the ground. The man _–_ or what remains of him, at any rate _–_ does not move again.

With hardly a pause, Dragon steps carefully around Gunther's prone form, rotates, takes a deep breath, and flames both of the remaining catapults.

The heat is intense _–_ Gunther rolls onto his side, instinctively balling himself up to try to escape it _–_ but it's not as intense as the relief that washes over him.

 _It's done_.

The last of the machines are gone, demolished, _obliterated_ by Dragon's wrath.

Jane is _safe_.

Dragon, now standing directly over him, roars a _third_ time, almost as if in agreement with Gunther's sentiments. The sound is muffled by the bulk of Dragon's body, but Gunther can feel it reverberating through him, rattling his very _bones_.

His ears are still ringing with it when he thinks he hears, from somewhere very, very far away, Jane shouting his name.

" _–_ ther! _Gunther!_ Gunther, get _up!_ You cannot stay here, damnit Gunther _get UP!_ "

He realizes, only belatedly, that Dragon has stepped, at least marginally, away; the sky is unobstructed now, so why does everything still look so _dark?_

"GUNTHER!" Jane sounds frantic.

He supposes it has to be important if she's this worked up about it, although _everything_ seems oddly distant now, the world around him... receding, somehow. Pulling away.

He'd accomplished what he'd set out to do, although he'd required assistance right at the end there… but regardless, his impromptu little mission has been a success and surely that means he can rest now.

He wants to _–_ no, he _needs_ to _–_ rest now.

Jane, however, is being _very_ insistent.

It really must be urgent. Gritting his teeth _–_ almost every bit of him is hurting in some capacity or other _–_ he forces himself up onto his knees… and immediately falls back to the ground with a gasp of pain.

Well, so much for that.

" ** _GUNTHER!_** "

Hellfire.

He makes a final, valiant effort to push himself up, manages to get one arm levered beneath his body only to have it give out _–_ and then he feels Dragon scoop him up from the ground. Dragon is being careful not to hurt him _–_ his great claws dig furrows in the dirt beneath him _–_ but even so, one presses painfully into the wound on his shoulder.

He lets out a strangled gasp of surprise, and he thinks he feels Dragon rumble an apology before the entire world _jerks_ away from itself. Gunther's head snaps backward _–_ if he lives, his neck will be sorry for a _week_ _–_ as Dragon launches himself into the sky with only the strength of his haunches and the push of his wings _–_

 _–_ and then Gunther knows no more.

* * *

" _–_ ake up. Gunther. Wake _up_ , Gunther. _Maggots_. Gunther… _please_."

Jane sounds fretful almost to the point of tears.

There's a hand, small and warm, pressed to the side of his face. But it's taking him so long, so _long_ to drag himself out of unconsciousness, that before he can force his reluctant eyes open, the hand is withdrawn.

He instantly, _bitterly_ mourns its loss.

A moment later he hears her again, this time from a slight remove. "What if he does not _–_ Dragon _–_ what if _–_ " she breaks off abruptly; it almost sounds as if her voice is _choked_ off.

 _Jane_ …

He makes another, mighty attempt to rally. He's just not… _quite_ there… yet.

"Jane, he will," comes Dragon's reply. There's a pause before Dragon continues, "why would he _do_ that? I thought you were enemies now?"

"I do not _know_ , I.. was hoping to ask him myself. But then you had to go and _squish_ him!"

"I did no such thing!" Dragon sounds highly indignant. "I am as delicate as a songbird when I want to be."

"Oh, _certainly_ ," Jane snorts. "A songbird that chewed up a full-grown man and then spat him out at the enemy."

"I still have beard in my teeth," Dragon grumbles. "Can you get lice in your _mouth?_ Nevermind… I do not want to know. But as for _Gunther_ there… after the way he hurt you, I rather think he _deserves_ a good squishing."

"I hurt _him_ , Dragon." There's an odd little hitch in Jane's voice. "Do not mistake what happened."

"No matter _what_ happened, he should not have left you like that."

"No," Gunther rasps, prying his eyes open at last, blinking up at the sky, "I should not have."

Jane gives a little gasp, and a second later she's bending over him, and his breath lodges in his throat because she's so close and so, _so_ very beautiful.

"Gunther! Are you – can you – God's blood! What were you _thinking_ , you stupid, _suicidal IDIOT!?_ "

"I… ugnh." Grimacing, he tries to lever himself up on his elbows. Shite, every _inch_ of him is sore. He gives up and lies back. "Water?" he asks. He's so thirsty his throat feels scraped raw.

"Yes, I have water." Jane disappears for a moment, then is back, unstopping a waterskin. She lets him drink, then says, "now stop dodging my questions. What in the sarding _hell_ were you thinking?"

Gunther holds his final swallow of water in his mouth, stalling for time, but it's no use. He can't form an even borderline articulate answer; he's too hurt, too scattered, too _compromised_. He gulps it down and sputters, "they _– we_ _–_ my side _–_ the machines _–_ I could not let them, Jane, I _could not_."

She frowns severely down at him. "We would have been f _–_ "

" _You would have DIED_."

Exasperation colors Jane's voice. "You cannot actually _know_ th _–_ "

"Did you see what they were loading those catapults with?" he demands, because _he_ sees, he can _still_ see in his mind's eye; can see those vicious, awful nets, can see Jane and Dragon knocked from the sky, torn to pieces as they fall. He's going to be seeing that image behind his eyelids for quite some time to come, he thinks.

"No, I did not, but Dragon is more than equal t _–_ "

"Jane. _I_ saw, and I _know_. I had to stop them. I HAD _–_ to _stop_ them. They were going to _–_ " he can barely force out the word _–_ " _kill_ you."

"They nearly did kill _you!_ " She's shouting now. "And that is _not_ conjecture, that is something I witnessed with my own eyes, and, and, _Christ_ , Gunther, when Dragon picked you up I thought _–_ I thought _–_ " abruptly she's gone from his field of vision; he hears her draw in several quick, deep, shuddering breaths.

 _DAMN it_.

Gritting his teeth, he forces himself into a sitting position. The world tilts alarmingly for a space of seconds, but then it rights itself... more or less. Jane is a couple of feet away, on her knees, with her back to him and her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she struggles with her respiration.

Leaning his weight on one hand, he runs the other, shakily, through his hair… then reaches out and places it, tentatively, on Jane's back. He's bracing for her to jerk away from his touch, but she doesn't, and so he begins to rub circles on her back, trying to soothe her. He hears Dragon make a highly disgruntled sound, but he doesn't look over at him.

He doesn't quite _dare_.

Jane finally calms herself down and turns back toward him… well, partially at least. She stops halfway so he can only see her in profile, and seems to have developed a sudden and _intense_ interest in the ground directly beneath her. She's staring fixedly down, fingers plucking restlessly at the grass.

"So you _did_ do that _–_ all of that _–_ for us." Her voice is little more than a bare whisper now.

"Jane, I _–_ "

"Are you _ever_ going to learn to think before you act, Gunther Breech!?" she demands. "What are you going to do _now?_ You have turned traitor, your _entire army_ wants you dead, you cannot go back _–_ _ever!_ _–_ dear God, what have you thrown away for me!? What _–_ what _–_ "

"Nothing worth keeping," he says. And he's not placating her. It's only the truth.

She turns, finally, to face him again, and her eyes nearly burn holes in him, her expression is so fierce. "What are you going to _do?_ " she repeats.

"Maybe –" now it's Gunther who can't quite hold _her_ gaze. He drops his eyes away, suddenly fidgeting. She's already bandaged the wound on his shoulder, he realizes. She must have a kit that she carries on Dragon, and… and sard, how long was he _out?_ Wh–

" _Gunther_."

He swallows hard. "Maybe I can go –" his voice is so hoarse that he has to stop for a second, clear his throat – "home."

Jane draws in a sharp little breath, and Gunther finally raises his eyes back to hers.

For a moment they just look at each other – Gunther isn't entirely sure he's even _breathing_. Then Jane's lips curve into a tiny half-smile. "Maybe you should at that," she says.

She unfolds herself to her feet then; walks a short distance away to where Gunther now sees there is indeed a large leather satchel lying open on the ground, contents strewn haphazardly about it. She must have been in an absolute _frenzy_ , digging for her medical kit. The thought makes him feel simultaneously guilty, and… really, really warm inside.

Jane roots through the bag a little more, sets a couple of items aside, then packs everything else back in and resecures it to Dragon. Gunther hears the two of them murmuring to each other, but can't make out their words. Then she returns to him, carrying the things she'd pulled from her pack, and sets them down beside him. There are fresh bandages, a little pot of salve, a rolled-up blanket, a waterskin, some dried meat and hardtack, and a short sword.

"You are pretty well bruised up," she says, "but I saw nothing that should pose a serious threat. You ought to be able to travel, if you take it slow. Go easy on that leg."

"Jane, I cannot take all –"

"You are not taking," she cuts him off, "you are borrowing. Dragon and I have to get back to the… action. But if you start walking toward home, we will find you when it is… when we can. All right?"

He stares at her, unsure what to say… and then his hand comes up, seemingly of its own volition, to cup the side of her face just as she'd been doing to _him_ when he'd first begun to come around.

"All right," he says quietly, thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. "Be… be careful, Jane. Stay safe."

She leans into his hand, lets her eyes fall shut, gives a long, slow exhalation through her nose. "You as well," she replies at length, brow slightly creased. "Gunther… about that night… you just… _surprised_ me, is all. I am sorry – I am _so sorry_ – that I did not recover quickly enough to..." she trails off, gives her head a little shake, breaking their contact. Then she's on her feet again, crossing back to where Dragon waits.

"I did, you know," she calls to him, throwing a leg over Dragon, settling astride his great neck. "I always have. I still do."

And then Dragon launches them skyward, Jane loosing a clear, high _whoop_ as they go, and Gunther sits where he is and watches them dwindle, dwindle, until finally they are lost to the horizon.

He's alone again.

And yet… he doesn't _feel_ alone. Not really.

He gathers up the things Jane left for him, rolling the small items into the blanket to make a sort of improvised pack for himself, then climbs carefully to his feet and shoves the sword through his belt.

He's stiff and sore, his shoulder and knee are protesting fiercely, and his head hurts. But he's alive.

 _And so is she_.

She's alive and –

 _[I did, you know]_ –

For the first time in a _long_ time –

 _[I always have]_ –

For the first time in three and a half empty, aching _years_ –

 _[I still do]_ –

He feels as if his life actually has… potential.

He orients himself by the sun and starts the long, limping walk home.


End file.
